


The Game

by vivaciousWordsmith



Series: Mind Games [1]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Character Death In Dream, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, In Medias Res, also monopoly the board game, dreams vs reality, stabby stabs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8129647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivaciousWordsmith/pseuds/vivaciousWordsmith
Summary: Certainly there are many ways to deal with almost twenty years of stress due to an active criminal lifestyle. Most resort to drugs. Some choose to play golf. Others try to bury every negative feeling as deep within themselves as they can get.
But what happens when that goes wrong?
Leads to some pretty weird nightmares, that's what.





	

“ _Ryan,_ for the _billionth_ time, it’s _your_ turn.”

He jerked upright and twisted around wildly. He was still in the penthouse, but all the lights were out, save the one directly overhead. He tried to rise from his chair, but found he couldn’t. When he looked down, he saw shackles binding his feet to the chair’s legs. He shook his head and focused on the man directly in front of him.

“Oh, God, not _you_ ,” he groaned.

The man across from him raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean…not _me?_ Or…not _us?_ ” He reached out and tapped the table expectantly. “Anyway, it’s _still_ your turn.”

Ryan blinked and looked down. A Monopoly board occupied most of the tiny table. “Really? _Really?_ Fucking _Monopoly?_ ”

“It was _your_ idea, Ryan,” the man said.

“Huh, that’s weird, ‘cause, uh, it sounds…it sounds more like _your_ idea, James,” he replied.

James sniffed and tugged on the lapels of his suit. “Maybe that’s because it was _our_ idea.”

“I fucking hate you.” Ryan grabbed the dice and shook them. He let them rattle inside his fist for a good few seconds, and then sent them spinning across the board.

“Hmm…five…two…that’s a seven for you.” He laughed at the rhyme and pointed at the little metal dog resting on Free Parking. “Aren’t you going to move?”

“I’m working on it! Jesus.” He picked up the dog and jumped it across the worn spaces. Four, five, six… “Fuck.”

“Ventnor Avenue, huh? Let’s see…if I’m not mistaken…” James looked down at his cards and scowled. “It seems the Vagabond has that card. You owe him…” He leaned over to inspect something just out of Ryan’s view. “…$120.”

Ryan’s gaze turned to his section of table. He had about $500 and two property cards to his name. Neither of them were in the same color group. He picked out six twenties and turned toward the third player.

The Vagabond stared silently back at him. His right hand had been bound to the arm of the chair by leather straps. He wore a black skull mask and a blue and black striped leather jacket. Specks of blood and bone dotted his plain t-shirt, and what he saw of his neck and hair was caked with the stuff. His free hand slowly came up from his lap and extended towards Ryan. The fingers were nearly black with dried blood. He swallowed and let the money slide from his hand into the Vagabond’s.

“There, now, was that so hard?” asked James.

James was a stark contrast to the Vagabond. He wore a spotless grey three-piece suit offset by a crisp white shirt and a shining charcoal silk tie. A tiny pair of Benjamin Franklin style glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his blond hair had been cut short and slicked back. When he folded his hands on the table, the silver face of a Rolex winked at Ryan.

James raised his eyebrows when he caught Ryan staring. “Jealous?”

“Of what? Of the fact you’re fucking losing?”

Two pink spots bloomed on James’s cheekbones. “I’m not _losing._ I’m just…having a little bit of a setback, that’s all.”

“Is that code for ‘I have no fucking properties’?” Ryan asked.

The pink spots spread down to James’s neck. His folded hands moved to obscure his sparse properties from view. It was pointless. Ryan already knew that although James had a good chunk of cash, he only had five properties to his name, and only one set of colors. The Vagabond, though he had much less money, owned almost every single other property on the board, and already had several houses on quite a few of them. Ryan himself only had Baltic Avenue and Park Place. Both James and the Vagabond kept glancing at the little blue card with hungry looks in their eyes.

“Anyway,” James said, “it’s your turn, Vagabond.” He nudged the dice closer to the other man.

“Why are we playing this?” Ryan asked. “What’s the fucking point?”

“I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Ryan. This was _your_ idea.”

The Vagabond reached out and grabbed the dice. He lifted them up and stared at them for a few seconds. Then he threw them at the table. They hit the center of the board and bounced away into the blackness.

“Was _that_ really necessary?” James groaned loudly and stood up. “I’ll be right back.” He glided off and disappeared from view.

The moment he was gone the Vagabond twisted in his chair and tore at the straps binding his arm. His blunt nails tore little strips out of the leather, but otherwise they held fast. He let out a low growl and bent down as far as he was able. He pulled his mask up until his mouth was exposed, and then bit down on the strap. His snarls grew louder when the straps still held.

Ryan edged his chair away from him and played with the end of his ponytail. The ends were dyed black and split in several places. Briefly he wondered if he should maybe re-dye his hair at some point. It’d at least _look_ nicer.

James finally returned with the dice. “Hey – stop that!” He slapped the Vagabond’s shoulder and glared at Ryan over the tops of his glasses. “Why are you just sitting there? Can’t you see he’s escaping?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be here either,” said Ryan.

The Vagabond snarled and snapped at James’s fingers. He only just managed to pull back before the bound man’s teeth could clamp down on his immaculate nails. The Vagabond then took a swing at him. James stepped back, and the fist missed him by inches.

James sniffed loudly. He tugged a white handkerchief out of his chest pocket and gently cleaned the blood flakes off the dice. “You and I both know what he wants.”

Ryan swallowed and turned his attention back to the board. “So…what…what did…he…get?”

“He rolled two fives, so ten, and a double, so he gets to go again.” James sat back down and put the dice on the Monopoly logo. “ _Move,_ Vagabond.”

The masked man reached out and pinched the tiny metal car between his thumb and forefinger. It hovered over the board for a few seconds, and Ryan watched his bloodshot blue eyes jump from space to space. Several haggard breaths sucked the latex teeth of the mask towards his chin. He finally set the car down on Pacific Avenue.

“Pacific…Pacific…Pacific, Pacific, Pacific…” James thumbed through his cards and scowled again. “Dammit. That’s one of his. Lucky son of a bitch.” He let the cards fall back onto the table and pushed the dice towards the Vagabond. “Your turn again.”

The Vagabond scooped up the dice and threw them at the board again. At least this time they only skittered to the edges of the board without falling off. “Boxcars? Goddammit,” said James. “If he gets another double, though, he goes to jail.”

Ryan snorted and watched the Vagabond grab his car and count spaces again. Another growl sounded from beneath the mask, and the masked man slammed his piece down on Baltic Avenue. He sat back in his chair and scooped up his paltry pile of cash. After a moment’s searching, he pulled out four ones and threw them at Ryan.

“Come on, it’s _four_ dollars,” said James. “ _Hardly_ a reason to complain. Ryan paid you a hundred twenty, remember? Plus you passed Go, so that’s another two hundred for you.” James reached down and pulled out the _Monopoly_ box. “I’ll _assume_ you want that in hundreds.” Two beige bills were pulled out of the box and placed on the Vagabond’s cash pile.

The Vagabond ignored him. His bloodstained fingers curled around the dice and threw them at the table again. One flipped over and landed on three. Ryan and James watched the other die tumble over the board with bated breath. Three tiny black dots briefly flashed at the two of them before the die stopped.

“Fuck. One. He’s rolled a four. Chance. Fucking Chance. He’s fucking landed on fucking Chance.” James scowled and folded his arms.

“Language,” said Ryan.

“Is that _really_ what you’re going to focus on?”

The Vagabond lifted his car and placed it on Chance. He sat back and drummed his fingers on the table. His blue eyes were fixated on Ryan.

“Ryan, you’re right next to the Chance cards,” said James. “Care to do the honors? Or is that too difficult for you?”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” Ryan plucked the card on top of the pile and looked at the bold black print. “It’s…it’s a Get Out of Jail Free card.” He placed it down at the Vagabond’s edge of the board.

“Jesus Christ.” James threw his hands up into the air. “Just when I thought we had a chance.”

The Vagabond slid the card off the board and tucked it under his pile of money. He shifted in his seat just a little bit. Two staring blue eyes drilled holes into his forehead and slowly slid down his body until they finally landed on the title deed for Park Place. A bloody index finger reached out and tapped the card three times.

“Ryan, don’t even _think_ about it,” said James.

Ryan bit his lip and twisted the end of his ponytail. “How…how much?”

“Ryan.”

The Vagabond thumbed through his money and pulled out two hundreds, three fifties and a twenty. He put the money down on the table and slid it towards Ryan.

“Uh…well…”

“Ryan, that’s nothing. Fuck, you _paid_ three fifty for the damn property! He’s fucking _robbing_ you!”

“Um…” Ryan considered his options. On the one hand, trading three seventy for Park Place would not only meant he would barely break even, he would also be down to Baltic Avenue, and that much closer to losing the game entirely.

On the other hand, he wasn’t sure he wanted to play at all anymore.

“Ryan, don’t sell it to him. He already has Boardwalk. If you give him Park Place, it’s all over for us.” James leaned across the table and grabbed Ryan’s hand. “You need to keep your head in the game, Ryan.”

Ryan thought about it for a few more seconds. He reached out and pushed the money back towards the Vagabond. “Come back when you get some money, buddy.” The Vagabond snarled and snatched up the fake bills. Ryan stiffened, waiting for more, but the Vagabond settled back in his chair without further incident. His left hand covered the straps on his arm and picked at them.

James sighed, released Ryan’s arm, and picked up the dice. “Ryan, I feel like you aren’t as invested in the game as you used to be.” He let the dice fall from his hand and onto the board. They rolled over twice and came up with a two and a three. “Five. That means…god. Dammit.” James’s metal top hat landed on the face of the police officer. “Go to jail. Fuck me.”

“I’d…I’d rather not,” said Ryan.

“Very funny.” James plunked his hat down on the orange space and slumped back in his chair. “Dammit.” He took his handkerchief back out and dabbed at his hands. His glare turned from his imprisoned hat to the blue card sitting in front of Ryan.

“No,” said Ryan.

“I didn’t even _say_ anything!”

“You can’t buy properties when you’re in jail! It’s against the rules!”

“Which rules? The ones you just made up? You know where in the rulebook it says you can’t buy property in jail? Nowhere!” James picked up his money, divided it in half and slammed a fat wad of bills in front of Ryan. “Seven hundred dollars. Double what you originally paid for it. You’ll easily be able to stay in the game. Take it or leave it.”

Ryan stared at the money pile for a few seconds. “You’re not…you’re not allowed to negotiate for, uh, for properties…when you’re in jail.”

“Goddammit, Ryan, do you _want_ him to win?” James scowled. “This is how we conduct this business! I’ve made a _generous_ offer – _too_ generous! – and you’re just going to ignore it?”

“I…I don’t…I don’t wanna break the rules…” he mumbled.

James let out an incredulous scoff. A low chuffing sound leaked out from behind the Vagabond’s mask. “I cannot believe _you,_ of _all_ people, are saying that. Your _entire_ game was built on breaking the rules. You’ve come this far. There’s no turning back now.”

He blinked and looked down at the money wad. “Sure. Yeah.” He pushed the money back toward James. “I…I don’t want your help. I’ll be okay on my own.”

“Sure. _You’re_ doing great, champ.” James glanced down at Ryan’s sparse savings and two dog-eared cards. “Never mind the fact you only have about four hundred to your name and two properties. If I’m not mistaken, you’ve been losing for a while now. If you’re not careful…you’ll be out.”

Ryan let out a breath. He leaned back in his chair and pulled the hairband off his ponytail. Blond and black strands of hair fell around his face and around his neck. What little relief he got from it was as sweet as spring rain. He closed his eyes and ran his fingers through his hair. After a few strokes, he ordered them into three parts and braided them together.

“Ryan? Ryan? Ryan. You’re avoiding me, Ryan. And it’s your turn, too.” Ryan opened his eyes in time to see the dice stop in front of his deeds. “Let’s see you get yourself out of this mess.”

“It’s fine. I’ve got this.” Ryan picked up the dice, shook them for about ten seconds, and threw them across the board. They landed on the second “O” in _Monopoly._ “Doubles. Two twos…so four…that means…Pacific.”

Ryan picked up his dog and put it down on Pacific Avenue. Then he looked at the Vagabond. “How much do I owe you?”

“You owe him…fuck…you owe him…he has two houses on Pacific…so…$390. Can you afford that?”

“Um…” Ryan thumbed through his money. “I…I uh….I only have…three…eighty…so…” He plucked up the deed for Baltic. “I’ll mortgage Baltic. Can…I need…that’s thirty dollars for that.”

James puffed out a breath. “Yeah, just…give me a second.” He pulled out the game box and picked out a twenty and a ten. “Here.”

Ryan took the ten, added it to his pile, and put it on the Vagabond’s side of the board. He slid it onto his pile and went back to picking at the straps. He flipped over the Baltic deed and tucked the twenty under the board. “Uh…okay…it’s, uh, Vaga…bond’s turn, right?”

“No. It’s still your turn, Ryan.” James gathered up the dice and pushed them back towards Ryan. “Can you at least _pretend_ you want to play?”

“Look, I’m _trying,_ okay?” Ryan picked up the dice and clenched them tight in his fist. He waited until the little rounded edges dug into his palms, and then threw the dice across the board. This time they skittered to a stop in front of James. He looked down, and all the color drained from his face.

“Five and three…that’s eight….” He looked up at Ryan. “Boardwalk. That’s Boardwalk.”

Ryan blinked. “What?”

The Vagabond chuffed loudly. He reached out, snatched up the little dog, and slammed it down on Boardwalk. Several of the little plastic houses skidded out of place. His eyes bored holes in Ryan’s forehead, and all ten fingers drummed relentlessly on the arms of the chair.

“What’s your plan now, Ryan?” James asked.

If his teeth kept worrying his lip like this, it was probably going to start bleeding. Ryan stared at his side of the board and weighed his options. “I’m…gonna…mortgage Park Place.”

The Vagabond snarled and hit the table. All the pieces jumped and scattered over the board. James scrambled to keep his money from fluttering off the table. The masked man glared daggers at Ryan and jerked in place. His frantic tugs for freedom were still in vain, though Ryan worried that the straps looked a little too worn now.

“Can I get $175, please?”

James didn’t answer at first. The pair sat in silence, while the Vagabond struggled and snarled. “Fine,” James finally said. “Far be it from me to tell you how to play.” He got a hundred, a fifty, a twenty and a five out of the box and handed them to Ryan. He put the fifty down beside Vagabond’s car and put the rest beside his mortgaged properties.

“Okay… _now_ it’s the Vagabond’s turn, right?”

“Yes. It is.” James scooted the dice across the board. “You know, Ryan, you used to _love_ this game.”

Ryan laughed so hard his stomach hurt. He wiped tears from his eyes and rested his elbows on the table. “You and I _both_ know I fucking _hate_ this game.”

“Really? Don’t you remember the games we used to play, Ryan? How much _fun_ you used to have? And you _won_ most of those games. Have you forgotten? Or is it that you don’t want to remember?”

Ryan glared down at the _Monopoly_ board, all mirth forgotten. “I _never_ had fun with this game. _Never_.”

“Nonsense!” James actually snorted and rolled his eyes. “The people who play this game either love it, or they hate the other players so much they want to _destroy_ them.” James leaned across the table and gazed sternly at Ryan. “If you’re not having fun…then I wonder why you’re playing at all, Ryan. What does that say about _you,_ huh?”

His heart leaped into his throat and pounded a thousand miles a minute. “Oh my God, shut up.”

In the meantime, the Vagabond picked up his piece and moved it from Chance to the Just Visiting section of the jail. He made sure his car faced James’s top hat head on. He paused for a moment, lifted a hand, and waved at James.

“Hilarious,” James drawled. “Simply. _Hilarious_.”

The Vagabond snorted softly. He reached out and flicked the dice towards James. One toppled his carefully organized money stacks, while the other leaped into his lap. Two ugly red blotches spread over James’s face, but he quietly knocked his money back into order and placed the dice on top of his deeds. He picked up a fifty and put it in the box, and then he picked up the dice.

“I think, gentlemen, that my luck is about to change.” He rolled the dice. They clattered over the table and landed with two fives up. “Double fives…ten…so…Free Parking. Hm.” He hopped his piece over every space until it landed on Free Parking. “And I get to roll again.”

“So do it and shut your mouth,” said Ryan.

“Wow, so rude, Ryan. I’m hurt.” He shook the dice again and tossed them over the board. “Four and one…five…one, two, three…”

“Railroad,” said Ryan.

“I _know_ it’s a railroad! I’m trying to figure out if I own it or not.”

“How do you not know? You have, like, _five_ properties.”

James scowled, and thumbed through his cards. “Let’s see…Oriental, Vermont, Connecticut…fuck, I have Pennsylvania, not B. & O. Which means I owe the Vagabond…one hundred dollars.” He picked up a beige bill and dropped it on the Vagabond’s side of the board. “Lucky bastard.”

James turned back to Ryan. He adjusted his glasses and glanced down at Ryan’s cards. “Ryan, I’ll give you…eight hundred dollars…for Park Place.”

The Vagabond’s head jerked back upright. His eyes darted between James and Ryan. A breath hissed out from the mask.

“You can’t buy a mortgaged property,” said Ryan.

“Yes, you can.”

“Where in the rules does it say you can buy mortgaged property? I’ve…we’ve…never played it like that.”

“Since when do you care so much about rules, Ryan?” James put his elbows on the table and linked his hands beneath his chin. “Eight fifty. That’s my final offer.”

Ryan opened his mouth, but was cut off when Vagabond slapped his palm down on the game board. The pieces leaped around, and Ryan jerked back. The shackles around his ankles bit into his skin. The masked man panted heavily. His bloodied nails dug speckled crescents into the _Monopoly_ logo. Two red-rimmed blue eyes dug holes into James’s skull.

“What?” James asked. “You didn’t know that, Vagabond?”

The Vagabond’s panting deepened. Ryan could almost feel the drool running down his chin.

“Well, too bad. You’ll have to wait for your _next_ turn…if Ryan doesn’t sell to me now.” He turned back to Ryan. “Well? Eight hundred and fifty dollars, Ryan. _More_ than double the value of that property, and enough money to keep you afloat. Hell, maybe you’ll be able to buy some properties from Vagabond.”

Ryan glanced over at the masked man. He glared back. Both of their hands curled into tight fists. “No…no thank you.”

“Oh, come _on,_ Ryan! Who are you trying to fool with this? You need help and you _know_ it. Stop being a pussy.” James picked out another bill and laid it on top of the pile. “There. Nine hundred dollars. Final, _final_ offer.”

“I don’t want your help.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’re an asshole and I hate you.”

James’s brows rose nearly to his hairline. “How is it that you can play this game the way you do, and _still_ act like a child?”

“Uh, I, what can I say? It’s…it’s a talent.”

“A talent.” James took off his glasses and massaged his temples with his index and middle fingers. “Do you not _see_ what this childish behavior is _doing_ to you, you idiot? _Look_ at this!” He gestured over the board, and came to a stop pointing at the bound Vagabond. “You’re losing control, Ryan.”

“ _I_ am fine, thank you.” Ryan grabbed the dice, and James slapped his hand down over Ryan’s fist. “Ow! Hey! What the _fuck?!_ ”

“Are you going to accept my offer – yes or no?”

“Get your hands off me!”

“You’re being unreasonable, Ryan. Think straight, for once in your stupid life. This is a _business_ , not a game. Get your head out of your ass and _do_ something, before it’s too-”

A sudden flash of silver streaked through the air, and a sudden sharp pain zinged through Ryan’s hand and up his arm. Both his and James’s faces contorted with pain, but when he tried to yank his hand back, the pain worsened. He looked down and saw the hilt of a knife sticking out of the back of James’s hand. Blood leaked out from around the blade and dripped onto the dice. The Vagabond, still posed mid-stab, roared with triumph.

“Ow, ow, ow, Jesus fuck, _ow!_ ”

“Christ, Ryan, I _told_ you to keep an eye on him!” James reached out and grasped the hilt. “Shit, this is bad. This is bad.” He tugged on the knife. It hardly budged a centimeter. “ _Shit_.”

“Pull harder, you stupid - gah!”

“I’m _working_ on it! You keep an eye on _him_ and make sure he doesn’t do anything else!”

“Sure. Fine. Great.”

Ryan gritted his teeth and shifted to the right. The Vagabond wriggled and struggled in his seat. Fresh scarlet drops ran down his right arm and dripped onto the floor courtesy of the second knife clenched tightly in the Vagabond’s left hand. Laughter rasped from his throat, and his eyes crinkled at the edges. Ryan’s stomach churned wildly, and a sudden sweat cropped up on his forehead and lower back.

“He’s breaking free!” he whispered.

“God. Dammit.” James glared at Ryan. “You _realize,_ of course, that this is _all_ your fault.”

“Me?! What did I do?!”

“You didn’t _watch_ him!” James pulled on the knife. Both of them grimaced with pain, and the knife’s blade emerged somewhat from their hands. “If you had played the game like you were _supposed_ to, this wouldn’t be happening!”

One of the straps binding the Vagabond’s arm loosened and flopped away. He cackled and sawed at the second. Blood shone on the blade and ran down his arm.

“We’re running out of time.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“Could you, at any point, be less of an asshole?”

“Now is _not_ the time for that, Ryan!”

“Right back at you.”

The second strap broke and fell limp. The Vagabond twisted his wrist around, and after some wiggling, it slipped free with a wet _shlock_ sound. He immediately bent double and tore at his ankles.

“Stop yankin’ at it and fucking _pull!_ ” Ryan batted James’s hand away and grasped the hilt himself. He closed his eyes and pulled as hard as he could. Pain burned his hand and arm, and he felt something tug at his flesh. James let out a yelp of pain, and warm liquid splashed on his face. He cracked an eye open and saw his mutilated hand. Blood pooled on the game board and dripped off the side of the table. His good hand tightened around the knife, and he turned to face the Vagabond.

But it was too late. The Vagabond surged upright and kicked the chair. It crashed back and smashed into little pieces. The masked man then seized the edge of the table and upended it. Ryan and James both jumped back while the table spun end over end and splintered against the wall. A shower of fake money, metal game pieces and plastic houses pelted all three men.

Before Ryan could react, a fist had connected with his jaw and sent him reeling. Black blotches danced in front of his eyes, and a sharp, tangy iron taste flooded over his tongue. Another punch hit the side of his head and snapped it to the side. He staggered back and swung the knife blindly. Fingers curled around his arm and pushed down on the tendons until Ryan’s hand opened. The knife clattered loudly when it hit the floor.

The Vagabond’s other hand curled around Ryan’s throat. He gurgled and struck out at his attacker. Any inch that could be hit was endlessly pummeled, but the Vagabond was as immovable as a brick wall. His hand squeezed Ryan’s neck even tighter.

“Ge…off…me!” he gasped. His knee jerked in between the Vagabond’s legs and nailed him right in the balls. The masked man grunted and slammed Ryan’s head against a wall. His fingers did slacken just a bit, so Ryan renewed his attack.

They slid down together, punching and kicking the entire way. The Vagabond pinned Ryan’s stomach with his knees and pressed one hand down on his throat. The other pulled the big knife out from his belt. He stared at it for several seconds, and lifted it up over his shoulder. Blood glimmered like rubies in the dim light.

More black spots danced in front of Ryan’s eyes. His stomach protested both the blows and the knee digging into it. A tightness around his ankles told him his shackles were still firmly in place, though the chair had long since been destroyed. Footsteps sounded from nearby, and James’s polished black patent leather shoes appeared next to his head.

“Fuckin’… _help_ …me,” he wheezed.

“Oh, _now_ you want my help? Really? I thought you could _handle_ it, Ryan.” The shoes shifted slightly. Ryan could now make out his reflection in the shining leather. Though it was badly warped, he saw the bruises blooming over his cheeks and blood dripping from his busted lip.

“Look at you, Ryan.”

The Vagabond’s knife hand inched higher still.

“You were once something so _great,_ you know? The Vagabond used to be your greatest asset, and now you can barely go an hour without losing it. How pathetic.”

In the blink of an eye, the knife came down and struck Ryan’s throat.

“But, I _suppose_ we can’t blame you, Ryan. After all, you _are_ so _very_ tired of this game you’ve been playing.”

The knife struck his chest. His shoulders. His neck. Wherever the Vagabond was able to reach, the knife was sure to tear. A bubble of liquid grew in his esophagus and bulged against the Vagabond’s fingers. Trickling streams of blood leaked from the corners of Ryan’s mouth. All the while the Vagabond laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Oh, but what am I saying?”

James’s voice was starting to grow faint. The pressure on his throat relented, and he immediately spat up a font of blood.

“You have it _completely_ under control.”

 

 

Ryan jerked awake with a start. His room slowly swam into semi-focus. Squinting did nothing to help him, so he rolled over, switched on his bedside lamp, found his glasses, and put them on. Several blinks later, the image was clear enough for him to realize nothing was out of place. Everything was normal. Everything was fine.

But what the fuck had that dream been about?

He yawned and stood up. A quick glance at his phone told him it was 3:56 in the morning. Far, far too early for Ryan’s liking. Unfortunately, with the dream fresh in his mind, he doubted he’d be getting back to sleep any time soon. He grumbled loudly and padded to the bathroom.

One of the perks of living in the crew penthouse was a giant bedroom and bathroom all packaged together. It was nice to be able to bathe or piss whenever he wanted without having to fight with seven or eight other people. Especially considering their profession.

Which brought him back to the dream.

Ryan shook his head like a dog and pulled off his glasses. He ran some warm water and splashed his face a couple of times. A few errant strands of hair fell around his face and dipped into the water, but he paid them no mind. After a few minutes of this, he turned the tap off and pawed around for a towel. When the cloth brushed his fingers he yanked it down and buried his face in it. Once he was dry he straightened, put the towel back, and put his glasses back on.

Ryan stared at his reflection. There were heavy bags under his eyes, and his stubble had long since turned into a white-flecked reddish-gold beard. His hair was a messy half-blond, half-black haystack practically exploding from his head. He narrowed his eyes and tugged on one of the errant strands. An attempt to run his fingers through his hair resulted in his fingers snagging on several knots, so he rooted around one of his drawers for a comb. The one he found was a snaggletoothed old thing he’d probably bought ten years ago, not that he particularly cared about that. It still did its job well enough for his tastes. His face scrunched up when the teeth snagged on the various tangles, but soon enough the comb traversed his hair without a hitch. God, it looked even more half-assed somehow now that it was somewhat orderly. Maybe it was because it was easier to tell how long it had been since he’d dyed his hair black. Or maybe it was the silvers cropping up around his temples. Maybe it was just him. He didn’t know. He scoffed loudly and pulled a hairband out of the drawer. He held it between his teeth while he looped his hair into a bun, and tied it into place.

A memory of a night not too long ago floated to the top of Ryan’s mind. It had been after a small heist, and the crew was relaxing. Gavin had seen him with his hair up in a bun, and had decreed that, henceforth, it would be known as “the Vagabun.” Ryan had chased him around with a machete for about ten minutes before the Brit fled the penthouse in terror. Sometime after the fact, Ryan admitted to Geoff that, in retrospect, the name was actually pretty funny.

He snorted at the thought and stood back. His chosen set of pajamas for the evening were a pair of plaid pants and a worn _Akira_ t-shirt. It was about the same age as some of his coworkers; a fact that made Ryan feel very old indeed. He reached up and tugged the frayed collar down a few inches. Several dark hairs sprung up and curled over the edge, and a long white scar glowed in the light. Another, more recent scar peeped out from behind his fingers.

Ryan didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that he couldn’t remember when he’d gotten them.

He let his collar go and massaged his throat. Stubble, hyoid, esophagus, jugular, collarbone. Nothing out of place. Everything normal.

But it had felt so _real…_

Inspection over, he stared up at the overhead light and frowned. As with most of his dreams, it had faded rapidly once he woke up, and what few details remained either confused or terrified him. Monopoly had something to do with it, though for the life of him he didn’t know why. He hadn’t touched the game in years. Mostly because the last time the crew had played, Gavin and Michael ended up in a fistfight, Jack’s Entity had been set on fire, and Ryan had to spend the night in a motel down in San Andreas.

Good times.

With that, Ryan left the bathroom and scanned over his bedroom. He was about ninety percent certain he had a carton of cigarettes stashed away somewhere, but he didn’t quite remember where. He flicked on his bedside lamp and immediately spotted it on top of one of his books. Curious, he shifted the cigarettes aside and read the title. _When Rabbit Howls._

“Huh,” he said. “Don’t remember…where did I get that?”

He shrugged it off, put the cigarettes and phone in his pockets, and left the room. The rest of the penthouse was silent. Not that that surprised him in any way. The average time the Fakes started their day tended to be around ten o’clock in the morning. Sometimes nobody was awake until noon. It really depended on what they had been doing the day before.

In other words, Ryan was alone.

He yawned and made his way to the kitchen. It was about twice the size of his bedroom and had a waist-high island about as large as his bed. Appliances gleamed from every counter, and the granite countertops twinkled in the early morning light.  He meandered over to the giant refrigerator and lazily tugged on the handle. Once it was open he carefully inspected its contents. Thankfully someone had restocked the Diet Cokes sometime during the week, so he snagged one and closed the door.

He was about to leave when a bag of chocolate-covered pretzels caught his eye. “Oooh.” He briefly considered the ramifications of having a late night early morning snack before breakfast, but quickly discarded them. The pretzels were simply too appealing. They were quickly claimed and tucked under his arm. Then he exited the kitchen.

The great set of glass double doors at the far end of the penthouse led to the pool and patio area, and it was here Ryan decided to settle. Simply put, there was something about Los Santos at night, especially when seen from the Fake AH Crew’s penthouse. From this height, the city was almost quiet. Peaceful, even. Removed completely from the chaos of the streets and alleyways. One easily felt like a god surveying their kingdom up here. It was a feeling that could quickly result in death once they descended.

Ryan went to his usual spot, which was a little café-style set of table, chairs and cloth umbrella right on the edge of the great patio platform. He could easily look over the metal railing and see the distant streets of their city. It was nice, in a slightly acrophobic way. A crystal ashtray and Zippo lighter were already waiting for him on the table. Either he’d forgotten about them, or Geoff had decided every table needed an ashtray and lighter. He wouldn’t really put it past him. He sat down and emptied the contents of his pockets onto the table. The phone and pretzels were set beside the ashtray while Ryan pulled a cigarette out of the pack. It stuck out of the corner of his mouth for the time being. He grabbed the lighter and inspected it. One side had a skull and crossed knives engraved on it, while the other had a loopy cursive _JRH._ Definitely his, then.

For a brief moment, he considered etching out the J.

There was a satisfying _snick_ sound when he flipped the lighter open. It sparked and snapped a couple times, but it did eventually ignite and light the end of his cigarette. He sat back and took a long drag. Red light swelled into sudden life and illuminated his face and chest. Warmth spread through his throat and lungs, and the slight thumping between his eyebrows lessened. Ryan tilted his head back and puffed out a stream of smoke. Wisps curled around the spokes of the umbrella and spiraled into nothingness.

Sometimes, when Gavin was annoying him, he liked to blow smoke out of his nose. Gavin absolutely loathed when he did that. Something to do with “snot smoke”, if he remembered correctly. Honestly, though it made him sneeze like crazy, he mainly did it because he liked to pretend he was a firebreathing dragon.

Pretty childish for a serial killer.

He let the cigarette rest between his fingers and popped open the Diet Coke. Truthfully, the combined taste of Diet Coke and cigarette smoke was not entirely pleasant, but at the moment, he was willing to endure it. The Coke can mushed the end of the cigarette into his hand, but he ignored that too.

Instead he looked out over the cityscape of Los Santos. Most of it was still brightly lit. Neon signs advertising everything under the sun outdid the stars with their brilliant light. Many of them were too far away for Ryan to see clearly, but he did have a rather lovely view of the Maze Bank building. Geoff had an office there just for shits and giggles. A very Geoff thing to do, really.

Inevitably, his mind went back to the dream. Even more details had faded now, but that only served to trouble him more. He did very much remember being killed by…himself, apparently. He still felt the knife blows striking his chest and neck, still heard the laughter ringing in his ears, still saw his own eyes staring him down as he choked to death on his own blood. That probably meant something, but he wasn’t in the mood to decode dreams. Maybe he was exhausted by the previous night’s job, or maybe he had just eaten too much before bedtime.

He pulled open the pretzel back and took another drag while pawing out the chocolate covered goodies. He’d been resisting them for far too long now.

In the end, he supposed it didn’t really matter. It was just a dream, after all. Hell, he’d already forgotten most of it. He’d chalk it up to work and leave it at that. Dreams didn’t mean shit.

After all, he was fine. Perfectly fine.

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a story one of my classmates wrote in my creative writing class. It got my wheels turning so much I just had to write this when I came home. I've been working on it for most of this past week, and I now think it's ready to be enjoyed. Who knows, I might even come back to write more for this series. I had a lot of fun with this guy.
> 
> See you guys later, then!
> 
> -vW


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